Pleasance, however, remained unconcerned. Miss Darlington had survived seven decades of turmoil (admittedly, most of it caused by herself), and no sulking crybaby of a man would defeat her.

“Psst,” said a ghost. Pleasance frowned, determined not to listen.

“Psst,” they said again. She shook her head.

A pebble hit her arm. Looking around wildly, she saw that it had not been the tormented spirit of a murdered princess hissing at her after all but a figure in the deep shadows behind an empty bottle rack. She sidled over.

“Pleasant?” the figure asked.

“Begone, foul spirit,” she whispered from the corner of her mouth.

“What?” it whispered back.

“My thoughts are guarded by the archangels; you will not corrupt me.”

“Er, all right. But I’m not a spirit. My name is Ned—”

“I am not so easily deceived, O evil apparition! Only a spirit could appear out of nowhere in this way.”

“Actually there’s a secret door—”

“As if I’d believe something so bizarre!”

The spirit was quiet a moment. Then it relented. “You’re right. I am the ghost of Emily Brontë.”

“Really?” Pleasance glanced in its direction. “I cannot see you through the shadows, but you sound like a man.”

“I had a very gruff voice, people always said so. Oh how the heights do wuther.”

Pleasance gasped. “You are Emily Brontë!”

“I am. After all, where else in the world would I haunt but the cellar of my deranged bastard nephew’s flying abbey?”

“That makes sense.”

Ned rolled his eyes. “I need your help, Pleasant. I need you to tell Miss Darlington that her niece is on board, and if she wants to keep her safe, she must do as I ask so that together we can overcome Captain Morvath.”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’ll bring her over.”

“No, wait! Miss Darlington does not have your psychic sensitivity. She will not hear my ethereal voice.”

“That is true.” Pleasance shuffled closer. “You smell a lot like soap for a ghost.”

“Er, well, cleanliness is next to godliness, you know, and I am in heaven.”

“Except when you are haunting an old Gothic abbey, of course.”

“Of course. Warn Miss Darlington to be ready for my return. When the time is right, I will help her and the Society escape, if she follows my instructions.”

“It seems like a trap, Emily.”

The silence following this sounded tight, as if it was frowning with impatience. “Why would I trap people already locked up, Pleasant?”

“Because—”

“But it is a test! A test of your soul, to find out if you are worthy of being a true heroine! Are you worthy, Pleasant?”

She drew in a sharp, trembling breath. “I pray so, Emily!”

“Then tell Miss Darlington what I said.”

“I shall!”

“I’ll return in a while.”

“Fare thee well, noble spirit of the moors.”

“Right. See you soon.”

There was a shuffle and a scrape in the darkness, then a faint creak as if from hinges. Pleasance saw a glance of soft golden light, just as she imagined must infuse the holy netherworld. She clutched her hands together against her heart. Then, with a carefully unhurried gait, she crossed to Miss Darlington and crouched down.